BROKEN MUSTANGS. Only One Reason to Call Someone You Love.
She paused to breathe, to collect her words, before humbly pressing the last digit of the first phone number she had ever memorized.
The receiver smelled like motor oil. The dingy, green, phone receiver had been kindly handed to her by the bulky man with the cracked, grease-stained fingers, from behind the cash register counter. He had wiped his rough, calloused hands on a dirty blue cloth and then untangled and stretched the coiled phone cord towards her. The push-button base dinged and clanked as he lifted it from behind the counter onto a disheveled pile of torn motor-parts catalogs, that lay open and heaped on the narrow desk in front of her.
She looked up at the large man’s brown, weathered face and dark eyes only long enough to see concern and pity crease his forehead. There was half a day of highway separating her from anyone she knew. Her eyes drifted back to the phone and she pressed the number seven, the last digit of the phone number that she had dialed a hundred times before. She needed her dad. Her stomach somersaulted with the surfacing regret of only calling her dad when she needed him. It was moments like this that smothered her with guilt. She held her breath, and waited for an answer.
She was only nineteen, but she could sense that the large, dusky man with the dark eyes was trustworthy. He probably owned the repair shop, but she wasn’t certain and she didn’t ask. She had a small confidence and ease around cars and repair shops. She had grown up watching her dad’s love for cars, really cool cars, and she always gleamed with pride when she rode with him. Cars were a hobby, but he knew a lot and she had enormous respect for that.
When she had turned sixteen her dad would prep her before taking her car in for a repair. He taught her what to ask, what not to ask, and when to be quiet. He would tell her a price range to expect so she would know if she was being taken advantage of. She tucked that knowledge away and referred to it often. The bulky man had examined her car and given her his diagnosis, which wasn’t good, and was far beyond any of the repairs her dad had prepared her for. She was quiet and listened when the man spoke, and from the outside he probably couldn’t tell that her insides were churning.
Before the dusky man had finished speaking she had already begun to write the script of her phone conversation with her dad. He would answer the phone right away, he always did. He wouldn’t be mad, but she would sense disappointment in his voice. He’d know what to do, and he wouldn’t hesitate to help her. He was her dad. She would tell him she was sorry. She would thank him, and then she would feel bad. She would feel sad that her phone conversations with her dad were always one sided, always when she needed something, it was never the other way around. Every time, she promised herself that she would change that, that she would call him just to say hello, but she never did. Then certainly, something would come up, and she would need him again. And he would be there.
The policeman had dropped her off at the dusky man’s shop shortly after the tow truck had delivered her car to the same garage. She had no idea where she was. She had been traveling north on I-75 through Georgia, somewhere south of Atlanta, when she heard a loud metal on metal noise from the engine, then smoke. The motor ceased and she eased her 1966 Mustang into the far right lane and then across the solid line on the edge of the interstate. She leaned over and pressed the stop button on the cassette player of the boom box that lay in her front passenger seat. She was about 7 hours in to her 12 hour trek when she heard the noise from her engine. She sat there, in her broken 20 year old car, parked on the interstate, for a long time; cussing every now and then, just because it felt appropriate. When traffic slowed, she propped open the hood of her beloved Mustang, looked at the engine, and wished she had listened more closely to her dad.
The policeman was heading south on the the interstate when he saw her and cut across the median to come to her rescue. He was kind and professional and took the time to look at the engine before he radioed for a tow truck. He would drive her to the repair shop and then help her to arrange for a hotel if necessary. She sat shy and silent in the police car looking out the passenger side window. The town that bordered the interstate was dusty, desolate, and small. Many of the buildings looked abandoned and in need of repair. There was little traffic so they drove easily through the tired town towards the repair shop. “Do you have someone you can call?” the policeman asked as he drove. “My dad”, she answered.
They always ate dinner as a family. Every night at 5:30 her mom had a home cooked meal ready. Dad arrived home from work a little after five, and she, along with her brother and sister, were expected to be home and ready to eat at 5:30. After dinner, dad would change into an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt and head to the garage. She couldn’t remember how old she was, but she was old enough to remember her dad finding that 1958 Corvette in need of restoration. For a long time her dad spent his evenings and weekends in the garage renewing the showroom beauty and mechanics of that Corvette. She watched and admired his attention to detail. She remembered his friends showing up to lift the car off its frame and carefully set it on the rack that her dad had designed to hold the fiberglass body. He took his time and rebuilt that beautiful car from the frame up. The dull white original color of that Corvette was restored to a pristine, Mirror Black. When the motor was complete, the engine block was red and the chrome was shiny. Her dad was proud of that car, and she was proud of her dad.
In between, during, and all around that restoration, her dad taught her how to drive. One day he drove to where the road inclined and put her in the driver’s seat of his other corvette, a 1978 standard 5-speed, and she learned quickly how to maneuver a straight drive. Shortly after her sixteenth birthday her and her dad had accidentally stumbled upon a 1970 Mustang for a good price. It was the deal of a lifetime, but she wanted to make it better, cooler. Her dad taught her how to sand and prep that Mustang for paint. In the evenings, after work, he would check her progress and help her get the car ready. He painted that white 1970 Mustang a perfect Midnight Blue. They went together and picked out a white pinstripe for the sides and new chrome wheels. She loved that car. She loved her dad. She wished she would have told him.
Her younger brother took over the 1970 Mustang when she went away to college. The 1966 Mustang, that currently sat in the bulky man’s auto repair garage in the small, dusty town in Georgia, was a gift. It was her second year of college and she wanted the additional freedom that a car would allow her. Her dad understood. He didn’t ask questions, he rarely did, he simply trusted her. He loaned her the 1966 Mustang, which she quickly made her own. Now it was broken. Her insides twisted and tightened and she pressed the phone receiver hard against her ear. The ringing stopped and the familiar voice of her father said hello.
He was more worried than mad. In fact, he wasn’t mad at all. As her whirling, guilt-ridden thoughts began to pour out in words, big tears of relief spilled from her tired eyes. She told her dad the story, as much as she knew. She had been driving with the windows down, in the left lane of the interstate, probably a little over the speed limit. She had heard a metal on metal loud noise and the motor ceased. She was okay, and she wasn’t afraid. Yes, she trusted the bulky man with the grease-stained hands and she thought her dad would like him too. She was familiar with the deep breaths, pauses, and tone changes in her dad’s voice. She knew it wasn’t anger she was hearing, but thoughtful, calculated plans being assembled to help his daughter.
He asked to talk to the dusky man, so she untangled the dingy, green, phone cord and stretched the receiver in his direction. The Mustang needed a new engine. It would take a while. This is how much it would be…she cringed again with guilt, her needs always seemed to cost money. God, that made her sad. The dusky man and her dad talked for a long time. She had walked away and slumped into a chair in the waiting area, exhausted. Her eyes were closed when she heard the man’s voice address her. “ Your dad wants to talk to you again”, he said. “He’s arranging for a hotel for you tonight and a rental car that you can pick up in the morning. We are going to replace the engine in your Mustang.” There was a pause. “You’re dad’s a really good man, isn’t he?” She looked up at the bulky man’s kind eyes from the waiting area chair, “Yes he is” was all she could say.
